


The Natural (Read: Destined?) Progression of Things; or The Five Most Memorable Places Where Arthur and Merlin Have Crossed the Line between Master and Servant

by ruethereal



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal





	1. Third Storey, East-Facing Corridor

The first time was after a feast in celebration of a particularly bountiful harvest.  Arthur had beckoned for his goblet to be refilled for the dozenth time when his chin landed heavily in the crook of Merlin’s elbow, and Merlin decided that His Royal Pratness was in need of a bed--and probably a hangover remedy from Gaius in the morning.  Merlin set down the wine ewer, still poised over the empty goblet, before planting the heel of his palm against Arthur’s forehead to raise it from its comfortable nest in Merlin‘s arm.

“_What_\--d‘you think you‘re--doing--_Mer_lin,” Arthur slurred, his breath hot and damp on Merlin’s wrist.

“Just saving you from embarrassment, Sire,” Merlin muttered.

Arthur’s head, already heavy, as Merlin thought on numerous occasions, from the large, princely ego it contained, felt abnormally heavy now that it was sodden with alcohol.  When Arthur finally--_mercifully_\--made an effort to stay upright, albeit only long enough to glare blearily at him, Merlin pulled back Arthur’s chair and guided a boneless arm across his shoulders to hoist Arthur from his seat.

The trek to Arthur’s chambers was slow and laborious, even taking shortcuts and avoiding unnecessary staircases, and Merlin was convinced Arthur was only getting heavier.  After several minutes of Merlin more dragging than ushering the gatted prince along the cold, unlit corridors, he could take no more and settled for taking a break.

Merlin lowered Arthur to the floor, who willingly crumpled against the wall with a deeply drawn sigh, and swiped at his sweaty brow with the cuff of his sleeve, hoping his blurred vision was brought upon by exhaustion and not the sips of wine he’d stolen throughout dinner.  For a single, long, blissful moment, Merlin considered leaving Arthur where he was, but he knew more than enough people had witnessed him toting the pra--prince from the hall, and Merlin had spent enough time in the stocks this month to risk it.  He groaned inwardly, but admitted ridding himself of the drunken mess that was Arthur was a task he’d prefer to finish sooner rather than later.

Merlin turned back to said drunken mess only to hear himself gasp, the sound offensive, loud in the empty passage.  In the short amount of time Merlin had rested, and guiltily thought of deserting the prince, and grudgingly decided not to, Arthur had risen from his slumped position on the floor and sidled up beside him.  Merlin drew a shaky breath, quickly coming to a few successive realizations:

First, that in spite of his inebriation, Arthur had approached him in complete silence.  Second, that even if he hadn’t sensed Arthur’s approach, he should’ve _smelled_ it, since Arthur’s breath reeked, sweet and heavy, of all the wine he’d drunk.  Third, that Arthur’s pupils were blown and outlined with only slivers of blue.  Fourth, that Arthur was physically emanating heat across the air separating their bodies.  Last, that Merlin only knew of the second, third and fourth because the air separating their bodies was the meager span of an eyelash.

“Er,” was all Merlin managed before Arthur breached that infinitesimal gap between them with an open-mouth kiss.  Merlin’s mind both froze and exploded.  And perhaps he _had_ drunk too much because, instead of shoving Arthur away, his hands leapt to Arthur’s nape, his fingers twisting at the baby fine hair there, and his mouth opened in eager acceptance.  Arthur made an appreciative noise into Merlin’s mouth to join his probing tongue, the vibrations of it making Merlin’s knees buckle.

As proof of his condition, Arthur was sloppy: sometimes mouthing uselessly at Merlin’s chin, sometimes clacking their teeth in his effort to force Merlin‘s jaws further open, sometimes licking the bow of Merlin’s top lip so messily his tongue tickled Merlin’s nostrils.  But, when he paid better, closer attention to the--_attention­_\--he was giving Merlin, Merlin’s tremulous mewls flooded both their mouths: like when he brushed the roof of Merlin’s mouth with his tongue, or when he sucked Merlin’s tongue into his own mouth, or when he drew Merlin’s full bottom lip between his teeth with a possessive growl.

Arthur’s hands, already crushing Merlin’s bony hips, guided Merlin backwards until Merlin’s shoulder blades met punishing, cold stone, until their bodies were flush, joined from chest to thigh.  Releasing one hip, Arthur snuck around Merlin’s waist and under his tunic to brand the smooth skin of Merlin’s lower back with a hot, calloused hand.  Merlin arched again, this time their erections dragging together through their breeches, the sudden electrifying sensation making Merlin drop his hands from their desperate hold in Arthur’s hair to Arthur’s shoulders, fingers gripping, knuckles white, nails digging, making Arthur throw his head back, eyes wide and unseeing, the cords in his neck tensing.

Merlin rolled his hips, watching as Arthur’s head snapped forward again, and groaned throatily, the sight of Arthur’s spit-slick, swollen mouth, his hair on end, the flush creeping up his throat from his chest, visible even in the weak moonlight streaming in through the empty arched windows, adding to the effect of the dizzying, glorious friction.  Arthur mirrored the motion, thrusting upward slowly, _deliciously_ slow, and he swallowed Merlin’s shuddering moan with another thorough kiss, tongues hot, wet, wrestling in the space where their mouths were joined.

Neither knew who wrenched away from whom first, but now that they’d come apart, they both noticed how loud, how hot they were panting into each other’s still-gaping mouths.  Arthur let his head fall forward, pressing his mouth to the skin barely exposed above Merlin’s neckerchief.  Merlin followed suit, brushing his lips across the tender skin behind Arthur’s ear.  They continued rutting against each other, impatient and erratic, Arthur gasping Merlin’s name with every thrust, Merlin babbling mindlessly: “so _wrong_” and “damn_, _damn, damn” and “_gods, Arthur_” and “Uther‘ll have my head if we get--_oh!_”

Arthur, feeling himself close, _so_ close, wrenched away from Merlin’s neck, though not before glimpsing the randomly placed marks on the taut, milky skin, to recapture Merlin’s lips.  The kiss, searing and filthy, more saliva and deep-throated grunts than finesse or trained tongues and lips, had Merlin shivering against Arthur.

Merlin’s moaned “_Fuck_, Arthur, I‘m going to _come_” pushed Arthur over first, both his hands grabbing Merlin’s lean arse to grind their cocks together, _closer, harder_, spilling himself in his breeches, his eyes rolling wildly in his head.  Merlin came then, feeling the wet heat of Arthur’s groin on his, his magic pulsing through his limbs, dimly aware of his head colliding with the wall and his breathless keening.

Arthur collapsed against Merlin, and if he’d been heavy before, drunk and half-asleep, he was dead weight now.  Merlin slid down the wall, pinpricks of pain littering his back, and draped Arthur over his lap.  Tangled uncomfortably around each other on the floor, Arthur peered up into Merlin’s face, eyes dazed and half-lidded.

“Merlin?” he huffed, his breath still smelling and tasting of wine.

Merlin answered with a noncommittal noise, his mind still struggling to catch up and process what they just did.

“_Mer_lin.”

“What, Arthur?”

“I‘m going to be ill.”

And so he did, retching onto the stone floor beside Merlin, near enough Merlin can hear it splatter.  But Merlin cared only enough to check no regurgitated wine, fruit, wine, meat, and wine got on him, lazily rubbing between Arthur’s shoulder blades, and noticing the horns of the crescent moon peeking beyond the window.  At least this way, he concluded, there was less of Arthur to haul.


	2. Prince Arthur's Stables

It’s been a month since _that night_ and both Arthur and Merlin came to a silent agreement to never speak of it.  At first, Merlin suspected, or rather prayed, that Arthur had no memory of their less-than-elegant activities _that night_, but even Merlin couldn’t miss Arthur’s shifty glances and jumpy reactions doing his regular duties: suiting Arthur in his armor, preparing his bed at night, readying a bath.  It was little help that Arthur had to sleep every night, and that he trained every morning, and that, despite the oncoming winter, Arthur needed to bathe regularly.

Still, they engaged in their normal, comfortable routine of Arthur giving Merlin orders that weren‘t expected to be obeyed in a timely fashion or, at least, not without an insubordinate quibble.  Sometimes, they were a little more polite to each other; sometimes, a lot more snappish.  And other times, like when Merlin had to strip a sweaty tunic off of Arthur after a rigorous training session, or when Merlin would offer Arthur a goblet of wine to accompany his late-night snack, their eyes met for an excruciatingly long moment before one of them would make a half-arsed, rude comment and they both turned away with reddening faces.

Winter’s first frost had finally swept across Albion, the air dry and biting, tasting of the oncoming snows, and still Merlin was left doing his least favorite chore: mucking out Arthur’s stables.  Luckily for him, the chilly weather made for a hardly-smelly job.  But there were a lot of horses, thus a lot to clean, and he’d already been at it for an hour.  He planted the shovel into the hay-littered floor and supported himself on it with a groan.  He tugged at his neckerchief, hissing at the cold air on his heated skin.

Merlin glanced at the painfully bright, grey noonday skies and unconsciously pressed his fingers to his throat, his thoughts shifting from those concerning dung to those sensation-swirled around a burning mouth sucking and biting and breathing his name and marks that took a fortnight to fade completely.

“_Mer_lin, cleaning up after the horses doesn‘t mean you have to stand there waiting for them to make the mess.”

He swiveled, spotting Arthur leaning casually against the stable’s doorjamb, arms crossed and jaw set.  Merlin froze, feeling his eyes widen and his mouth hang open.  It seemed the fates were out to get him, for Arthur to appear while he reminisced over _that night_.  Worst yet, Merlin noticed as Arthur’s gaze drifted perceptively to Merlin’s hand still touching his neck as if he’d heard Merlin’s thoughts.

Arthur stared at him for several moments before effortlessly shouldering himself upright.  Arthur stalked towards him, eyes boring into Merlin’s, blue melding with blue falling into blue.  When he was an arm’s-length away, Arthur reached for Merlin’s still-raised hand, wrapping warm, combat-roughened fingers around Merlin’s, pale and spindly.  He gently eased Merlin’s hand down and away, and his eyes finally left Merlin’s face to favor Merlin’s neck, innocent and curious.

“Arthur.”

His name, more air than sound as it wafted against his face, was enough to spur Arthur into action.  With one hand still folded around Merlin’s, he lifted the other to pull away the neckerchief, his fingertips grazing each inch of creamy skin as it was revealed.  The offending piece of cloth fell to the floor between their feet, and Arthur planted his hand on the side of Merlin‘s neck, fingers stroking the hair at Merlin‘s nape, thumb sweeping along Merlin‘s jaw.

Merlin leaned into the touch, eyelashes fluttering against his prominent cheekbones.  He reached between their bodies, fisting his free hand in Arthur’s tunic to urge him closer.  The prince complied instantly, slotting their legs, erections pressing to thighs, already seeking--_needing--_what they‘d found a month ago.  So, as if it was now something natural, they ground their hips together, equally frantic, mutually aroused.

Merlin moaned Arthur’s name against his temple, and Arthur realized there was something else that he wanted.  He added pressure to Merlin’s neck, drawing him down.  The meeting of lips was shy and hesitant for only the briefest second until Merlin’s hushed “_Yes_” went straight to Arthur’s groin, driving him to lick the seam of Merlin’s lips, demanding.  Merlin obliged, parting his lips, and Arthur capitalized on the opportunity to take more, slanting their mouths to gain better access, to slide his tongue along the underside of Merlin’s, to finally--_fuck, yes, finally_\--get another taste of Merlin.

Because, as much as he’d tried to resist, Arthur had spent the past month struggling to recall every detail of Merlin’s mouth, since he was sure the overbearing memory of the taste of wine was of his own mouth.  And though he was sober now and (almost entirely) rational enough to acknowledge that doing _this_\--kissing, and more so frotting--with Merlin was wrong, he also concluded that doing this with _Merlin_ was intoxicating in and of itself.  And _gods_ was he ever surprised, and pleasantly so, to find that Merlin was as delicious and skillful as he faultily remembered, tasting like fruits and mint, swirling his tongue at the back of Arthur’s teeth.

Merlin released his hold on the front of Arthur’s tunic to slip his hand beneath it, splaying his long, nimble fingers across Arthur’s ribs and rubbing, flicking, _teasing_ both nipples, already peaked from the cold, in turns, and Arthur had to wrench his mouth away from its filthy, greedy devouring of Merlin, groaning, obscenely loud,

“_God_, Merlin.”

Merlin silenced Arthur with a not-so-gentle bite to his swollen bottom lip, eliciting a sharp gasp from the prince.

“’God’?  Really, _Sire_, you can stick to calling me by my name.”

Arthur touched their foreheads together and punctuated a muttered “_Idiot_” with a fierce cant of his hips.

Merlin answered with a few lazy, torturous thrusts of his own before stepping back a fraction.  Arthur growled at the loss of contact, but Merlin silenced him again with another, softer nibble to the prince’s pout.  Merlin guided their still-clasped hands to his groin, moving his grip to Arthur’s wrist and pressing the flat of the scorching, calloused palm to his erection weeping copiously in his breeches.  They moaned together at the new, thrilling sensation.

“_Fuck_, Merlin, you‘re so hard,” Arthur ground out through gritted teeth.

Merlin just chuckled shakily, releasing Arthur’s wrist and dipping his hand into Arthur’s similarly tented, soaked breeches without preamble and wrapping those sinful fingers around Arthur’s thick, pulsing, hot-hot-_hot _shaft.

“As are you, Your Highness,” Merlin murmured, stroking Arthur’s cock with a loose grip once, twice.

Arthur fucked Merlin’s fist once, twice, before Merlin slackened his grip completely, and Arthur couldn’t give a damn about the obvious want-_fuck_-need and desperation in his groan when what he _did _give a damn about was for Merlin to stop teasing him, the cheeky, insolent bastard.

As if sensing Arthur’s frustration, Merlin leaned into him, catching Arthur’s top lip with both his own and breathing,

“Touch me, Arthur.”

Arthur shuddered, mind reeling at the imperiousness in Merlin‘s raw, husky voice, feeling himself twitch in Merlin’s hand, and meekly did as he was told.  Merlin’s abdomen was smooth and firm beneath his trembling fingers, and if he wasn’t so _drunk on Merlin_, he might’ve registered the strangeness of grabbing another man’s cock.  Instead, all he could think of was the heat and dampness of the velvety skin in his hand, the more-than-substantial length of it, the pulse he could swear was racing against his fingertips.

The angle was all wrong and he couldn’t gauge how his ministrations felt, but when he slid his hand up along the shaft and palmed the leaking head before running his hand back down, Merlin gave a stuttering sigh and resumed the pumping of Arthur’s cock.

“Good--_yes_\--Arthur--”

Arthur’s eyes snapped to Merlin’s mouth, watching as his name fell from the unnaturally pink, perpetually pouting lips like it was a prayer or an incantation.  He grew dizzy, not knowing what to focus on: the oddly disembodied yet familiar feel of Merlin’s cock gliding in and out of his fist, or the feel of Merlin’s fingers brushing against his balls as his own cock slid in Merlin’s hand.

They immediately fell into a harsh, merciless rhythm, fists pumping and hips thrusting.  The fingers of Merlin’s other hand had gone back to abusing Arthur’s nipples and Arthur could hear himself cursing everything because “Feels so fucking--good--_Mer_lin.”  Wanting to make Merlin come first, Arthur threaded his hand in the sweaty, tousled hair at the back of Merlin’s head and yanked his face in for a bruising kiss, filthy and hungry and loud with their shared moans, and he added a wicked flick of his wrist every time his hand grazed the head of Merlin’s cock.

Sure enough, it took only a few measured twists before Merlin’s mouth fell from Arthur’s to latch onto the flushed, sweaty skin where Arthur’s neck flowed into shoulder, his hips stilling as he came over Arthur’s fingers, balls drawn tightly as his cock pulsed in Arthur’s palm.  And somehow, Merlin kept his hands moving, one digging into the tender flesh above Arthur’s ribs, the other jerking Arthur off with no rhythm and all tight, slick, crushing friction.

“Come for me, Arthur.”

Though in no way unexpected, his orgasm still caught him by surprise in its intensity, his head falling between his shoulders, his vision darkening at the edges, his chest tight from the deep-bellied moan caught in his throat, as he continued to buck into Merlin’s fist, now covered in his own come.  He stood there spent, mind slightly disconnected from his body.  Merlin’s fingers didn’t let up and the over-stimulation forced a low grunt from Arthur, who released Merlin’s hair to swat at Merlin’s insistent hand.

Merlin simply chuckled, that infuriating, impish chuckle--the_ bastard_\--and withdrew his hand from Arthur’s breeches, and Arthur did the same, extracting his hand from the mess in Merlin’s.  But it seemed the cheeky git wasn’t done yet, and Arthur watched in guilty fascination as Merlin lifted his come-smeared fingers to his mouth, his infernal, pink tongue slipping out to lick his hand clean.

“Gods, Merlin, you‘re _filthy_,” Arthur moaned, his cock betraying him and stirring in spite of his exhaustion.

Merlin smirked, picking up his now-dusty neckerchief from the stable floor and taking Arthur’s dirtied hand to wipe it.

“It _is_ my job to clean up after you, Sire.”


	3. Prince Arthur's Chambers

A fortnight passed before their third clandestine escapade, though not without incident.  Merlin, unabashed by their tryst in the stables, had developed the nasty habit of standing too close for too long without touching Arthur unless necessary; born competitive and bred to be a champion, Arthur had readily taken up Merlin’s metaphorical--_sexual_\--gauntlet.

The first week, Merlin challenged Arthur’s tolerance for teasing solely with his hands.  Whether he was putting Arthur’s armor on or taking Arthur’s clothes off, Merlin moved deft fingers deliberately slow and feather-light, always leaving Arthur torn between closing his eyes to enjoy the ghostly touches or watching Merlin’s hands on him to ensure they were really there.  Uncharacteristically, he would never bully Merlin to _hurry the hell up_ since he had better things to do.

One morning, while peeling another sweaty tunic off of Arthur, Merlin took advantage of the fabric still shielding Arthur’s face and briefly brushed a nipple with the tips of his fingers, the touch bold and certain.  Arthur groaned involuntarily, but when his head was finally freed from the tunic and he’d shot Merlin a pleading glare, Merlin merely looked on impassively--innocently, even--save for the triumphant glint in his eyes.  Conceding Merlin’s victory, Arthur snatched the tunic from Merlin’s hands and sent him away.  Merlin left obediently, but not before Arthur glimpsed the smirk on his manservant’s lips.  He spent the rest of the afternoon never once summoning Merlin; that night, he locked the door to his chambers.

The following day found them in the same situation.  Merlin had removed Arthur’s armor and was reaching for the hem of Arthur’s tunic when Arthur locked both of Merlin’s bony wrists in just one of his hands.

“That’s all for today, _Mer_lin.”

Merlin glanced down at their hands; his fingers were already losing sensation in Arthur’s vice-like grip.  He cocked his head questioningly.

“So, am I free to go?”

In answer, Arthur relented his hold on Merlin’s wrists and pulled out the chair at his table, sweeping an arm in offering.  Merlin blinked dumbly at the gesture, and Arthur heaved a put-upon sigh.

“_Sit._”

Merlin returned the sigh before obeying.  But Arthur gave him little time to relish in the feel of the sleek furs draping the chair before he approached Merlin, nudging his knobbly knees apart to stand between them.  The breath that hitched in Merlin’s throat may have gone unnoticed by Arthur, but there was no missing his gasp when Arthur thumbed the hem of his tunic to unveil millimetre by glorious millimetre of taut, sun-browned skin.

“You see, _Mer_lin,” Arthur drawled in explanation, “I wanted to know for myself why you’ve enjoyed removing my clothes with the speed of an arthritic mare as of late.”

When he’d hiked the tunic to his waist, he held the fabric there with his right hand and trailed the fingers of his left along the sprinkling of hair leading down from his navel.  Seeing Merlin’s gaze rapt and following his trekking fingers, Arthur progressed lower until he was palming his half-erect cock through his breeches.

“As Crown Prince,” he continued, “I _do_ have places to be, duties to fulfill, though never the liberty of taking my time.  But, I see now why I‘ve allowed you delight in this.”

To prove his point, Arthur drew the tunic farther up his body so it was gathered at his collarbone and dragged his hand from its lazy stroking of his cock, digging his nails into the skin of his chest.  Arthur crowed inwardly, spotting Merlin’s fisted hands twitch on their perches on either knee and his eyes trained on the faintly pink, raised welts Arthur had laced across his own abdomen.  Arthur circled one of his nipples with a fingertip, and he felt Merlin’s knees quake against his calves.  Merlin’s breath, hot and ragged, was harsh on Arthur’s already sensitized skin.

The tip of Merlin’s tongue peeked out to wet a corner of his mouth, and Arthur was struck with a brainwave: he rested two fingertips on Merlin’s bottom lip.

“_Lick._”

Miraculously, Merlin didn’t need telling twice; a greater miracle still, he took the initiative of doing more than licking the proffered digits, parting his lips and--after an obligatory slide of his tongue along the length of both fingers--drawing them into his mouth with a delirium-inducing suction.  His fingers acting like a conductor, Arthur felt Merlin’s resulting moan spike through his arm and the rest of his body, so it became impossible to discern when Merlin’s moan ended and Arthur’s began.

Arthur, now completely hard and needy, feasted on the sight of Merlin peering up at him through his lashes, of Merlin’s lips gliding over his fingers, of Merlin unashamedly stroking the bulge in his own breeches.  Reluctantly, Arthur yanked his fingers from their slow devouring--though he barely contained a guttural moan when the action dragged Merlin’s top teeth on the back of his knuckles--and took two wobbled steps away from his for-once compliant manservant.

“Good,” he rasped.  “That‘s--_really_ all--for today.”

Merlin blinked dumbly at him again, and it took Arthur every ounce of conditioned discipline not to shove his fingers between Merlin’s still-parted, spit-slick lips again.  Before he could give in to the temptation, Arthur turned on his heel, shedding his tunic as he strode awkwardly--due to his painfully erect state--to hide behind his privacy screen.

“And _Mer_lin, close the door on your way out.”

Their new post-knights-training routine of Arthur undressing for a submissively seated Merlin, then having Merlin suck on his fingers, carried on for the remainder of the week, Arthur always resisting the urge to ravage that sinfully talented mouth, Merlin always having his hands batted away when he tried to touch Arthur.  Still, they’d stepped up to wanking (themselves), Merlin sucking on three or four fingers now.  But, as retribution for Merlin’s teasing the week prior, Arthur would pull back and walk away whenever he sensed Merlin was reaching his peak and dismissed him, even at the price of fiercely beating himself off moments after Merlin had shut the door.

Finally, it seemed Arthur had worn Merlin’s patience too thin: one day, Merlin denied Arthur’s fingers entry, no matter how insistently they nudged at the firmly drawn line of his lips.  Arthur was about to give it up as a lost cause when Merlin betrayed the silently established rules and lifted his hands from their assigned spot on his knees to grip Arthur’s hips.  Arthur raised an eyebrow in question, but mutely yielded to the gentle pull of Merlin’s hands.  Merlin met him halfway, scooting forward to the edge of the chair until Arthur was nestled between his thighs.  Arthur’s mouth dried, trying to predict Merlin’s next move; Merlin’s pretty, delectable mouth stretched into a knowing smile.

“You‘ve punished me for long enough, don‘t you think, _Arthur_?” Merlin murmured, his breath hot and damp and thrilling on Arthur’s exposed abdomen.  “You‘ve been punishing yourself, as well, I‘d say.”

Arthur only groaned in reply, a groan that morphed mid-way into a hiss when Merlin slipped just the tips of his fingers into the waistband of his breeches and half-heartedly added weight without actually budging them down Arthur‘s hips.

“I‘ll take that as a ‘Yes, Merlin, _you god_, get on with it,’ My Lord?” Merlin huffed, amusedly.

Arthur groaned again from the wafting of Merlin’s taunt across his confined erection.  But even if saying ‘Yes, Merlin, _you god_, get on with it’ would prompt his _manservant_ to _get the fuck on with it, _Arthur refused to submit.  So he jerked his hips forward, his hard-on brushing Merlin’s jaw.  Merlin absently hummed in agreement before shucking Arthur out of his breeches in one nearly-fluid motion, save for the garment catching uncomfortably on Arthur’s cock.  The prince barely stifled a yelp.

“Couldn’t give a man some warning, could you, _Mer_lin?”

In what could be interpreted as an apology, Merlin rubbed his cheek against the unbelievably hot shaft of Arthur‘s cock, pressing his nose to the dense, dark-gold hair at its root and inhaling deeply, dragging his nails across the tender flesh of Arthur‘s inner thighs.

“I thought you with your _warrior instincts_ would be able to anticipate,” Merlin sniggered, then added a wry, “_Sire_.”

Merlin forestalled what was sure to be a clever (though, more likely than not, angry and immature and rubbish) argument on the prince’s part, choosing the same exact moment that Arthur opened his mouth to make said argument, to wrap his lips around the swollen, precome-leaking head of Arthur’s cock.

Feeling Merlin moan around his fingers was one thing; feeling Merlin moan around the head of his cock was something entirely different--brilliant--fucking fantastic--and Arthur expressed his approval with a deep-bellied growl.  His hands immediately scrabbled at Merlin’s shoulders, Merlin’s muscles quivering beneath his bruising grip, desperate to redirect his focus from the nagging, writhing need in his gut and gain some semblance of control.

Merlin remained motionless, hands still caging Arthur’s hips, lips still _just barely _covering the crown of the smooth head, and permitted Arthur several shaky breaths before experimentally swirling his tongue.  There was that exhilarating--_fucking fantastic_\--phenomenon again, the doubled intensity of feeling and hearing and sharing the same moan.  Arthur surrendered and concentrated solely on their point of contact, Merlin’s gorgeous mouth--_is on my fucking cock_; Arthur’s gorgeous cock--_is in my fucking mouth_, and he needed more, Merlin’s mind drowned in the _taste of Arthur_.

And if it wasn’t enough that their thoughts and bodies and moans were connected, they locked gazes--Merlin’s up through long lashes, Arthur’s down beneath heavy eyelids--and acted on the same impulse, Merlin hollowing his cheeks and--Arthur arching and--slow, slow--Merlin’s lips stretching around--Arthur easing his hips--_fucking slowly--_until Arthur felt himself brush the soft palate at the back of Merlin’s throat--until Merlin had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight the urge to gag, had to remind himself to breathe through his nose, had to still Arthur by digging his thumbs into Arthur’s hips.

Arthur’s cock, hot and heavy and pulsing on his tongue, slid back and out, and, though it brought him some relief, Merlin snapped his eyes open to glare up at the prince, feeling ridiculously disappointed and desperately _hungry_.  Still, Merlin followed the motion, pulling back and going cross-eyed to curiously watch each inch reappear, dark with arousal and shining with spit.  When it was only the head between his lips, he smirked around it, gave another swirl of his tongue, before taking as much of it back into his mouth, welcoming the invading feeling, and completely forgoing any notions of teasing or taking his time.

After a dozen, fully devouring passes with his mouth, each time quicker-wetter-louder, Merlin smugly suspected that Arthur was teetering dangerously close, judging by the frenetic nature of Arthur’s hands--constantly moving from Merlin’s hair to his shoulders, his neck, his upper arms--and his inability to say Merlin’s name without an interrupting gasp or groaned ‘fuck, yes, like _that._’

Merlin had to admit the prince was remarkably restrained, never once forcing himself too far down Merlin’s throat or trying to dictate the pace.  Maybe another time, _if_ there came another time, Merlin would try to crack Arthur’s self-control; but _this _time, Merlin was grateful for it and allowed himself the selfishness to release one of Arthur’s hips, frantically reaching into his own breeches to stroke his neglected prick in time with the sucking of Arthur’s.

Vaguely noting the change, Arthur glanced blearily down at the erotic display of Merlin, his _manservant_, expertly handling both of their cocks--his red-raw lips gliding over Arthur’s so eagerly, spit and precome were dribbling from a corner of his mouth--his pale and long-fingered hand fisting his own, _just barely_ freed from his breeches, at a punishing speed.  As if he knew Arthur was watching, Merlin leered up at him, eyes dark and smoldering, and Arthur had half a mind to gasp ‘Oh, _fuck, Mer_lin, I’m--’ and to shove urgently at both Merlin’s shoulders in warning, but Merlin only grunted and moved his hold on Arthur’s hip to Arthur’s arsecheek and squeezing, his demand unspoken but nonetheless understood: _Stay_.

And like that, Arthur was coming, head thrown back, mouth opened in a voiceless shout, senses frazzled.  Arthur’s come--slippery, salty, sweet--flooded Merlin’s mouth, thick and hot, and it didn‘t occur to him to _not _swallow it down ravenously, and Merlin came then, head swimming with the almost-overwhelming, heady taste, fingers slicked with his own come, and taking extra care to not bite Arthur’s cock but to milk it, slower, gentler, for everything the prince had to offer.

When both his and Arthur’s pricks were finally spent and losing their tumescence, Merlin drew back and rubbed his jaw, chin and mouth across his sleeved forearm.  Arthur muttered an exhausted but distinctly satisfied ‘_fuck_’ before withering bonelessly to his knees, propping his elbows on Merlin’s thighs.  Merlin favored the panting, glassy-eyed prince with a half-concerned, half-indulgent raise of an eyebrow, to which Arthur responded with a hoarse chuckle.

Merlin grimaced, unsticking his hand from his flaccid prick, and was about to wipe it on his tunic--for lack of anywhere else to do so--but found his wrist in the familiar grip of Arthur’s hand.  Arthur tugged Merlin’s hand toward him, eyes slightly more focused now as they inspected the come-smeared digits and palm, before ducking his head and licking a tentative stripe from Merlin’s wrist to the tip of his thumb.  Merlin couldn’t help his strangled mewls as Arthur diligently scoured every surface of Merlin’s hand with a hot, deft tongue.

After an eternity contained within what was really the span of several minutes, Arthur examined Merlin’s hand, nodding at his job well-done.  Merlin laughed at the childishness of the prince’s actions, but Arthur just smiled crookedly, lacing their fingers together and raising his other hand to card through Merlin’s dark, sweaty curls.  Applying pressure to the base of Merlin’s skull with his fingertips, Arthur willed him closer.

Neither knew how or when kissing had become so natural, any inkling of timidity long forgotten, as their mouths met, already open and expectant, faces already angled.  They licked into each other’s mouths, breathed each other in, sighing and moaning as they tasted themselves, each other in their joined mouths.  They stayed like that for another few, infinitely long minutes, tongues working and jostling, until Merlin pulled back reluctantly, lips so swollen Arthur doubted they’d ever go back to normal--not that he’d mind, since it would be _his_ doing--, his eyes darting to the door of Arthur’s chambers.

“What is it, _Mer_lin?”

‘It’ turned out to be an attendant knocking on the other side of the heavy wooden door, announcing,

“--your presence, Sire.”

Arthur groaned his annoyance and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“_Who_ needs to see me?” he shouted impatiently.

The answer was immediate, fearful: “The King, Sire.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur shouted, still impatient, and somewhat weary now.  “Inform my father that I‘m coming.”

But the attendant’s ‘Yes, Your Highness’ was overridden by a loud snort from Merlin, and Arthur whipped his head back to his manservant, sneer set.

“What _now_, _Mer_lin?”

Merlin’s eyes, over-bright and mischievous, raked over Arthur’s debauched appearance before he quipped,

“’_Coming_,’ are you, _Your Highness?_”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief at Merlin’s cheek but couldn’t bring himself to force back another crooked grin.  He planted a final kiss--chaste and lingering--to the back of Merlin’s knuckles, their hands still clasped and collecting warmth, answering with a,

“_Yes, Mer_lin.  You‘d know all about that.”


	4. King Uther's Great Hall

The winter months came and went uneventfully--relative to the months prior--for the prince and his manservant.  Some days, Arthur invited Merlin for horse rides or strolls to the kingdom’s outlying villages to check how the people were faring through the season.  When it was just the pair of them, they sometimes shared kisses of varying degrees of affection and desperation--tender and warm and punctuated with laughter the night Merlin burrowed into the sleeping pack with Arthur as they camped in the forest; hot, lazy, slick against the shed of the widow whose roof they’d patched; deep and frantic while shivering against each other as they lay in the snow accumulating in a hidden, abandoned pasture.

They’d also picked up their existing war of sexual wills--the both of them waiting for opportunities to brush hands, groins, lips against any available body part and somehow making the teases discreet, save for hitched breaths and frustrated groans and consuming blushes.  And, even when they weren’t touching each other with mouths or hands or otherwise, their banter became provocative, laced heavily with goading challenges and filthy promises--‘bite your tongue or _I_ will’ or ‘don’t use the _cold_ as an excuse’ or ‘who’s ordering whom around?’ and ‘where the hell did you learn to do _that_?’ and ‘_of course, _girth matters as much as length.’

When they remained in Camelot, Merlin would sneak into Arthur’s chambers on some nights and crawl into the bed.  Uncharacteristically--for the disobedient, sadistic git--Merlin only ever slept.  But the prince would wake the next morning with an unexplained erection before realizing Merlin was curled tightly around him: chest to back, nose to nape, arms round his chest, and a tangle of legs and linens.  Those mornings signaled good days for the prince, who, after coaxing a slumber-mumbling Merlin to consciousness, would be greeted with a gravelly chuckle of ‘G’morn--thur’ and treated to a languid snog-and-frot session.

Long gone were the days of pretending they’d only accidentally toed the invisible line drawn between them, caught in the moment or spurned by curiosity or uninhibited because of an excess of alcohol.  This line between Arthur and Merlin, royal prat and cheeky servant, was neither fading nor fraying, but twisting around them thick, palpable, uncontrollable.  Now they constantly relished in the perks of their warped but enthralling master-servant bond, sometimes cautiously, sometimes not.  Unfortunately for Arthur, these times of _not_ occurred very nearly always in public places, when Merlin did something utterly _not _erotic yet still drew a reaction from the prince, who could _not_ for sanity’s sake control his Merlin-centered hedonism:

Dragging his mouth across Merlin’s shoulder when he leant between Arthur and Morgana to pour each of them warm cider, Arthur hoping the rest of Merlin’s body had blocked the movement, but when Merlin stood shakily, Morgana’s piercing gaze darted from one boy to the other before she snorted a mocking ‘_Figures_;’ snaking his hands around Merlin's waist to help his manservant mount his horse, momentarily forgetting the dozen knights (all of them either averting their eyes or staring with a wide range of interest) awaiting his orders as they were to ride out to deal with a group of looting bandits; palming either side of Merlin’s flushed face to gently dust the snow from Merlin’s eyelashes with both thumbs, Merlin having just rushed back to Gaius’ rooms where Arthur had (for the most part) waited patiently for him with only the cocked-eyebrowed physician for company.

As Arthur should’ve foreseen, Merlin picked up on the prince’s newly developed weakness for him and assigned himself the duty of aggravating the situation.  Merlin’s provocation--in the form of grabby hands and barely-innuendos and feigned deadpan reactions to Arthur’s own advances--reached fever pitch by the season’s end, when Albion’s snow was gradually turning to stale, dirty slush as springtime nudged winter aside, and Camelot was reluctantly stirring from its frozen lull.  Though halting and drowsy, the arrival of spring marked the revival of territorial feuds, most notably those with Cendred.  After multiple reports of Cendred’s men perusing Uther’s lands, the King called upon Arthur to discuss tactics.

_Unfortunately for Arthur_, he made the mistake of bringing Merlin with him to the Great Hall.  While Uther rattled off insults against Cendred’s character and numbers of knights Arthur could afford to keep constant patrol of the blurred boundary between the kingdoms, Arthur could only supply the King with noncommittal answers like ‘the men are capable’ and ‘the borders will be maintained’ and ‘yes, Father, yes, My Lord, yes, Sire,’ as Arthur was too distracted by Merlin--standing intimately, offensively, tantalizingly close at Arthur’s shoulder--who kept a steady, murmured stream of: ‘that’ll be nice, since you haven’t had time to put your _sword_ to real use lately’ and ‘we both know you’re an expert at _handling_ unruly _men_’ and ‘countless hours of _riding_ your horse will take a toll on your_ arse_’ and ‘I can name a few of your royal _territories_ worth _invading, Your Highness_.’

After another minute of the one-sided conversation, Uther excused himself to oversee a hanging or burning or other routine execution, Merlin bowing unnecessarily low--though, Arthur guessed correctly, more for _him_ than for the King, when Merlin wiggled his hips.  The King's cloak had only just disappeared through the doorway with a flourish when Arthur fisted a hand in the back of Merlin’s tunic and hauled him bodily to the far end of the Hall.  Arthur dragged his licentious servant--said servant becoming contritely mute--in this way before forcing Merlin against the High Table.

As much as he’d liked to memorize Merlin’s ridiculous yet endearing expression of surprise, Arthur prioritized the thwarting of any potential protests with a greedy mouth on Merlin’s, confining Merlin with his arms, hands gripping the edge of the table on either side of Merlin's hips, none-too-gently pressing his thigh to Merlin’s groin.  Still, Arthur felt Merlin smirk into their loud-frantic-molten war of tongues and teeth, felt Merlin’s bony frame heave against him in laughter, felt Merlin link a long, willowy leg around Arthur's and rock down on his thigh to confirm his arousal.  An indefinite amount of moaning and rutting later, Arthur pulled away panting.

“Honestly, Merlin, the _filth_ that comes out of your mouth, I should put you in the stocks,” he growled.

Merlin leaned forward to nip the juncture of jaw and throat and whispered, hot and wet on Arthur’s flushed skin, “It wouldn‘t be very noble of you to take advantage of a restrained man, _Sire_.”

Arthur only gave a shout of laughter, angling his face in offering.

“And anyway,” Merlin continued, tonguing Arthur’s staccato pulse as it tattooed its way from the inside out, “the filth that _comes in_ my mouth is of greater importance, I should think.”

With a groan, Arthur arched away as far as Merlin's leg permitted, staring with eyes dazed and dilated at the terribly, delightfully addictive sight of his manservant--blue eyes darkened with _come hither _clarity, mouth parted in invitation, throat tensing with shallow, arrhythmic breaths. 

“Cheeky bastard,” he huffed, stroking Merlin’s already-swollen bottom lip with a forefinger.  “And my father a metre away.  I really ought to teach you a lesson.”

Merlin caught the roving fingertip between his teeth and mumbled around it, taunting without any real derision, “What could a royally spoiled prat like you possibly teach me?”

Arthur spared him a light-hearted ‘Impudence’ before recapturing Merlin’s lips in a softer, slower kiss, licking into each other’s mouths with sliding-tasting-swirling tongues, breathing hushed groans and wavering sighs taking precedence over breathing oxygen.  Merlin’s nimble fingers skated up Arthur’s torso, seeking their familiar home in Arthur’s hair, pausing only at the broad shoulders to ease off Arthur’s jacket; Arthur’s hands left the woodwork to trace the long lines of Merlin’s body, drifting along Merlin’s arms, down Merlin’s sides, coming to rest on the jut of Merlin’s hips.

Merlin wrapped his leg higher around Arthur’s thigh, snaked both arms tighter around Arthur’s neck, giving Arthur the impression that his manservant was trying to crush their bodies into one.  Several months ago, Arthur would have maybe--undeniably--found the idea immeasurably absurd; now, with his senses swathed in Merlin--his scent sweet and woodsy, tasting of honeyed bread and the roasted rabbit he’d openly snuck from Arthur’s plate earlier, his moans thrumming in Arthur’s mouth so he felt them as well as heard--Arthur could only despair at not thinking of it himself sooner.

Needing far more mental effort than physical, Arthur took Merlin by the wrists, unlocking them from the back of his skull, and maneuvered out of the cage of Merlin’s arms.  The pout on his manservant’s mouth drew an affectionate chuckle from the prince.  Peppering airy, close-lipped kisses from one of Merlin’s temples--on each eyelid--across the furrowed brow--to the other, Arthur guided Merlin’s tunic up his body, his hands, sure and warm, leaving goosepimples in their wake.  Arthur carefully eased the garment over Merlin’s head (briefly musing over the stubbornness of the neckerchief to keep its position around the milky column of Merlin’s neck) and, when the tunic was gathered at the small of Merlin’s back, Arthur quickly and efficiently knotted the fabric with Merlin’s arms still contained in the sleeves, effectively restraining him.

As Merlin’s realization grew, so did the size of his eyes, the flush down his throat and, most perceptibly, the need in his breeches.  But, never one to disappoint, Merlin struggled half-arsedly at the makeshift bonds, grumbling,

“How is _this_ any better than putting me in the stocks?”

For the moment, Arthur ignored him, mindlessly dragging a fingernail across Merlin’s chest, watching the webs of thin, pink lines blossom on the taut, pale skin, feeling the muscles quiver deliciously beneath his touch.  When he was finally satisfied with the starkly contrasting crisscrosses on Merlin’s abdomen, Arthur grinned smugly at him.

“I know you have a penchant for uttering _lewd things_ in public, _Mer_lin,” he drawled, “but I’m sure you’d prefer to not be displayed this way in the town.”

Merlin scoffed.  “Oh, _I see_, you’re doing me a kindness here, yeah?”

In answer, Arthur roughly shoved at Merlin’s breeches, Merlin swearing loudly when they snagged on his erection.  Arthur followed them down, lowering himself to his knees as the breeches pooled round Merlin’s ankles, and rubbed a cheek to a bony hip, smirking up at Merlin.

“My apologies, I forgot you lack my _warrior instincts._”

Merlin gave a stuttered laugh as Arthur pressed a hot, open mouth to the protrusion of his hip, alternating between sucking and biting the skin there, before moving his mouth to the neighboring patch of unmarked skin.  Merlin squirmed and jerked his hips forward to no avail, Arthur’s hands wrapped securely around the back of each of his thighs.

“No need to be a martyr, _Mer_lin,” he chided, pausing to gauge his work and his wriggling manservant, glimpsing Merlin’s prick twitch expectantly.  “What were your magic words?  ‘Yes, Arthur, _you god_, get on with it’?”

Merlin glared down at Arthur for one long moment before gritting out, “Yes, _Arthur_, you bloody sadistic prat, get your pretty mouth on my cock _now_ or I’ll strangle you in your sleep.”

One second, Arthur was laughing around the word ‘_Treason_;’ the next, he was sliding the flat of his tongue along the underside of Merlin’s cock from root to tip, wrapping his lips firmly around the engorged head, tonguing the precome-leaking slit, taking as much of the considerable length before experiencing the foreign feeling of swallowing something that’s not meant to be swallowed.  Arthur bobbed his head experimentally, the muscle gliding smoothly on his tongue, as he found himself salivating hungrily from the deeper, more concentrated smell and taste of Merlin from his position.  He’d be lying were he to say knew what he was doing--widening his jaws uncomfortably slack, dragging his lips back and forth along Merlin’s shaft, humming when the head bumped the back of his throat--when really he was only mimicking what Merlin did when he sucked Arthur’s cock.  But, judging by Merlin’s gurgled moans seemingly floating down to him from a great distance away, he was doing _something_ right.

Yet, it didn’t take long for Arthur to notice that no matter how much of Merlin he forced down his throat, there remained a disdainful amount of _cock_ evading his mouth, mocking and pink and nearly-dry.  Though still making the effort to devour Merlin’s prick with the pretense of skill, Arthur couldn’t help his straying thoughts: ‘is the cheeky git _that_ much better at this than me?’ and ‘gods, I’ve already admitted to him he’s _longer_ while I’m _thicker_’ and finally, as if by some divine act of grace, ‘what would Merlin do, the rarely--all right, _sometimes_\--resourceful fool that he is?’

Suddenly inspired, Arthur pulled back and, when only the head was cradled in his mouth, wrapped one hand around the spit-slick shaft and began working Merlin’s cock, tight lips and tight fist in tandem.  Arthur immediately sped up, his hand picking up the slack for his tired, slightly numb lips.  And, as focused as he was on the task at hand (and in mouth), Arthur noted how loud their activity had become, what with the steady, obscene sloshing sound of suction and friction of skin on skin, and Merlin’s wild, wanton moans of ‘yes, _Arthur_’ and ‘fucking brilliant’ and ‘don’t you--_dare_\--stop, you bloody--selfish--gorgeous--amazing--_prat._’

The last of these somehow wrangled a laugh from the prince, the bone-deep vibrations of it catching Merlin off guard and robbing him of the chance or time or manners to alert Arthur that he was coming--and coming hard, his entire body bowed back and swept with heat, his face turned heavenward, his vision dancing with hallucinogenic colors.  If Merlin’s abrupt change in condition wasn’t indicative enough, Arthur felt the pulsing of Merlin’s cock with each spurt of hot, viscous, bittersweet come, and though he gave a perfunctory roll of his eyes, Arthur would _not_ be undone and so swallowed every drop.

When Merlin politely extracted his cock from its messy cage of Arthur’s hand and mouth to lean heavily against the High Table, Arthur growled a hardly-heated,

“Couldn’t give a man some warning, could you, _Mer_lin?”

Merlin smiled drunkenly down at him.

“Now where’ve I heard that before?” he managed to pant.  Then, after a few shaky breaths, “You’re incredible--brilliant.”

“Don’t forget _gorgeous_,” Arthur grunted, standing wearily and pawing at his groin, the action drawing Merlin’s gaze downward and back to his face.

“Could I have the honor of taking care of _that_,” Merlin quipped, gluttonously eyeing Arthur’s soaked, tented breeches.

And before Arthur could supply him with an answer--affirmative or not--Merlin shimmied the garment down Arthur’s hips.

“The fuck,” Arthur barked, peeking over Merlin’s shoulder to see the Merlin’s tunic-turned-restraint lying wrinkled and defeated on the table.  “When the _hell_ did you get your arms free?”

“On the third try,” Merlin answered evasively.  “Now shut _up_, will you?”

Arthur’s comeback shriveled on his tongue when Merlin dropped to his knees and took Arthur’s dark-from-neglect cock in his mouth and his hand, pumping and stroking it the way Arthur had done his a minute ago.  Arthur’s knees knocked together dubiously, the slick heat and pressure far too much, and far too soon, he was coming, hands tangled in Merlin’s hair, groans woven with Merlin’s name.

Merlin stood effortlessly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and kissed the swell of one of Arthur’s cheeks.

“Better, _Sire_?” he puffed, grinning insanely.

Arthur mouthed wordlessly as Merlin draped his jacket, which he’d retrieved from the floor while he was conveniently down there, over one of Arthur’s shoulders and eased Arthur’s breeches back up his legs.  Blinking dumbly, Arthur watched Merlin redress himself and try in vain to smooth away his clothes.

“_How the fuck_ are you so good at that?”

Merlin peered down at himself then at Arthur, twitching his shoulders in a small shrug.  “I can’t be that great, seeing as how the wrinkles haven’t gone.”

The seconds dragged by painfully.  Then, _then_, Arthur burst out laughing, grabbing both of Merlin’s shoulders to support himself as his knees buckled again, and though Merlin hadn’t the faintest explanation for the prince’s sudden hilarity--Arthur never had to do laundry, after all--, he joined in, chuckling through his confusion.

Arthur snaked an arm around Merlin’s back and steered him towards the entrance of the Hall, Merlin going obediently.  But, it wasn’t until they reached the doorway that both finally noticed the two guards standing at attention there--and most definitely had been through the duration of their activities.  Merlin tensed at Arthur’s side, but Arthur merely tightened his arm around his manservant and continued leading him away.

_Fortunately for Arthur_, he knew his withering glare was threat enough to keep both men mum.


End file.
